


razor's edge

by Kalgalen



Series: this home we built [2]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: (It's Not Pinning If They Don't Talk About It), M/M, Repressed Feelings, Slight Alcohol Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-19 15:52:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13707690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgalen/pseuds/Kalgalen
Summary: In which things go unsaid, and actions speak louder than words.





	razor's edge

Kepler and Jacobi’s relationship is as clean-cut as it can be - or so they like to think. It’s never been just business; Jacobi has never forgotten how Kepler pulled him out of an existence without prospect and has the dedication to show for it. He’d go to hell and back if Kepler so much as suggested it. He’s his right-hand man, his attack dog, the one tool he can always rely on - and Kepler won’t lie: he’s come to rely on Jacobi’s loyalty far more than he ever expected to rely on anyone. They work well together, on a strictly professional level.

And- well.

They kiss, sometimes.

(Which, Warren supposes, doesn't fall under Goddard's fraternization policies if they're doing it on their own time. Probably.)

 

* * *

 

The first time happens on the day of the Anniversary - and, frankly, Kepler should have been expecting it. They've been dancing on a razor's edge ever since they first met, skirting around the implications brought by the circumstances of their first encounter. You don't usually buy a drink to a stranger without a goal further down the line; Jacobi hadn't read it that way on the moment, busy as he was wallowing in self-pity and loathing, but Kepler knows he wants to ask sometimes. _If I’d thought you were hitting on me, what would you have done?_

_Was the job the only reason you approached me?_

Anyways. Apparently, Jacobi has elected to skip the awkwardness of the question altogether and go straight for a gamble on his life - he's always been more of an action-over-words kind of guy, after all.

It goes like this:

They're sitting in a car under false pretenses and an unrelenting rain because Kepler finds endlessly entertaining how annoyed Jacobi gets when he plays clueless. The annoyance melts like snow over a volcano as soon as the real reason of the 'stakeout' is revealed, and Jacobi protests ( _"I'm not complaining!"_ ) - repeats it, voice soft, eyes fond - then leans over and presses his lips to Kepler's.

Kepler freezes.

It's over in an instant, as soon as Jacobi understands Kepler isn't going to reciprocate. He pushes back until his shoulder hits the passenger door, an horrified expression on his face.

He looks like he's regretting all the decisions he's made since he chose to call the number on the card a then-stranger had left on a sticky bar, exactly one year ago. He looks like his heart has phased right out of his chest and into the ground.

He looks _scared._

For a second, Kepler allows himself to mourn the comfortable atmosphere Jacobi just blasted to bits and simply stares at his subordinate, trying to process what happened. The rain has conveniently stopped falling, leaving them to hang in a tense silence. Finally, he says slowly, teasingly - a bit pleased, maybe, but in a way that makes it clear he just thinks of the whole deal as a cute joke:

"Well, Mister Jacobi. You should have told me how you felt."

Jacobi cringes, and risks a glance in his direction.

"I- uh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have- I didn't-"

"It's alright."

"It's just, it’s the Anniversary, and you organizing all that, I thought-"

"It's _fine_ , Jacobi," Kepler says more sharply, and Jacobi's mouth snaps shut. This is dangerously getting into things-they-don't-talk-about territory, and Kepler isn't about to let him ruin the rest of their night.

"Now. How about we blow up those fireworks?"

Later, as they send fuse after fuse light up an ephemeral star in the dark sky, he definitely doesn't look at the way colors play against the edges and planes of Jacobi's face. He doesn't bite his lips thinking about the fleeting pressure on them half an hour before, and he doesn't distantly hope it could happen again.

He doesn't forget.

 

* * *

 

The second occurence takes place seventeen months later. His cellphone almost vibrates itself off the side table when it receives the first message, and progressively crawls closer to its untimely demise with the four that follow. Warren pushes it back at a safer distance from the edge and turns over, deciding that whatever it's about, it can wait until morning.

But then his _work phone_ rings, and he can't ignore that one, so he grabs it - winces when its light pierces through the darkness of the bedroom, winces a bit more at the hour (1:46am) - and opens the message. It's from Maxwell, and fits in two words:

_ >Answer please _

He reaches halfheartedly for his personal cell and, sure enough, the five new messages on it are all from one Doctor Alana Maxwell.

_ >Hi, are you up? _

_ >I just got off the phone with Jacobi, I think he could use a hand _

_ >Dont tell him I said that _

_ >Im very worried, please get him home _

_ >If you dont answer to that one im ringing your professional number _

Kepler sighs and groans, but types out an answer.

_ >What do you want? _

Calling would be quicker, but he’s learned early on that Maxwell doesn’t do phone conversations unless it’s a matter of life or death, so he waits. One minute, two - and he’s about to put the phone back down when it buzzes again.

It’s a long text. The typos scattered around are a testimony of her concern. She explains how Jacobi had called her half an hour ago, audibly drunk and sounding not quite like himself. He’d asked her how her day had went, if she’d met interesting people, what she was going to do now that the event was done for the night. She had asked him what was wrong, and he’d just answered he’d wanted to hear her voice.

 _ >like he was about to die, _ she writes.

And, yeah, Jacobi had acted strange the whole day. A bit distant, less responsive to Kepler’s quips and jokes, but Kepler had chalked it up to him feeling Maxwell’s absence particularly strongly. She’d been gone for two days, would only come back in two more due to a conference on programming languages in Los Angeles. Nothing to warrant that kind of reaction, Kepler would have thought.

(To be honest, he has half the mind to let things follow their course, allow Jacobi to pass out in some shitty bar, and mercilessly mock him when he comes to work hungover the next morning.)

 _ >Im worried, _ Maxwell repeats, and Kepler runs a hand through his hair, sighs again, and gets up.

_ >Where is he? _

The address comes immediately, followed a few seconds later by another message, like an afterthought:

_ >thank you _

Kepler snorts. That’s Maxwell alright, remembering social codes with a delay like other people remember to pick up some vaguely inconvenient relatives from the airport. He gets dressed, grabs his keys, drives to the joint designated by Maxwell. He scowls disapprovingly at the tacky neon sign above the door; his mood doesn’t improve when he pushes the door and finds the place still packed with people despite the late hour - _drunk_ people, who for the most part don’t even have the decency to jump out of his way when he pushes through the crowd looking for the man _he apparently has to babysit, now._

When he finally finds Jacobi, he’s feeling pretty murderous and not really up for discussion, so he simply drags him up and away from his - fourth? Fifth drink, if the empty glasses in front of him are to be believed - and hauls him out in the street without a word.

Jacobi looks a bit nauseous when he stumbles out of the bar; he leans over and puts his hands on his knees for a moment, breathing heavily through his nose, and Kepler rolls his eyes.

“I thought you were over that kind of… excess,” he says, making sure his tone conveys the whole span of his distaste. Jacobi holds up a hand to demand him to wait, and Kepler narrows his eyes, repressing the itch to break one of the offending fingers.

The cold night air seems to help with the nausea, and Jacobi straightens back up, pinches the bridge of his nose, rubs at his jaw. He throws a sidelong glance at Kepler before looking away again, then croaks out:

“Alana?”

Kepler isn’t feeling particularly charitable, now less than ever, and so he grunts:

“What about her?”

“She called you?”

“Yeah, she did.” He stalks off in direction of his car, and hears Jacobi follows on his heels a few seconds later. He continues, feeling the anger build up with each word: “She woke me up - at _two in the morning_ \- to go scrape off your _pathetic_ ass from some _miserable_ bar - because you sounded _sad_ on the _phone_ .” He stops short in his tracks and spins on his heels; Jacobi only just manages not to collide with him. “Why,” he asks, voice shaking with barely contained rage, “is this still an _issue_ , Mister Jacobi?”

Jacobi blanches, looking like the proverbial deer in the headlights of Kepler’s ire.

“I-”

“This better be an excellent explanation,” Kepler warns. “I sure as hell didn’t come all the way there to listen to some shaky excuse about-”

“I was feeling lonely!” Jacobi cries out, and Kepler blinks. That’s pretty much the reason he was expecting, but he hadn’t anticipated Jacobi actually saying it out loud.

Jacobi crosses his arms, and it feels less defensive and more like a way to stop himself from falling into pieces. “I was feeling lonely, alright? Alana’s… gone, and-”

“She’s not dead,” Kepler cuts, and Jacobi has the nerve to glare at him.

“She’s not _here_ ,” he spits out. “And I-” he deflates again, looks away. “I don’t have anyone. She’s so… so _important_ to me, you know, and I-” His tone turns bitter, and he mumbles: “I don’t expect you to understand, or anything. I just miss her.”

Kepler considers him for a moment, hesitating between leaving Jacobi to deal with his problems on his own or helping him through them - only because they might interfere with his work otherwise, of course. It's simple maintenance to ensure his primary weapon works perfectly, Kepler tells himself.

"Alright," he says. He's not going to say he understands, because it's way too late even for him to make such a big lie sound like the truth. As far as he's concerned, ties that bind you to other people should be things you can cut as soon as they stop being useful; no use in clinging to something that will tether you down.

Even so, he can at least pretend to care.

"Let's get you home, Jacobi."

He starts again toward the car and Jacobi follows, always a step behind, always shadowing him. He's shivering when they stop next to the car, his thin hoodie a poor protection after the packed heat of the bar. Kepler resists the impulse to shrug off his coat and throw it over Jacobi's shoulders, and jabs his keys into the lock instead - perhaps a bit more viciously than the action warranted.

They drive in silence for a while. Kepler glances at Jacobi from time to time, and the way the city lights paint colors against his waxy skin is awfully similar with the way fireworks had, a little over a year ago. Jacobi is apparently fighting a new wave of nausea, eyes shut tight, forehead pressed against the cool glass window. He looks impossibly fragile like that, as if taking a too-deep breath or moving wrong would be enough to shatter him, and Warren feels-

He _feels_.

To distract them both, Kepler asks:

"Is Maxwell still rooming with you?"

He realizes, belatedly, that talking about the reason Jacobi put himself in this state in the first place might not be a great idea, but Jacobi looks a bit more alive when he answers:

"Uh, yeah. Just until she finds her own place."

"Hm. How did that happened?" Kepler asks with feigned interest. He already knows, of course, but Jacobi looks like talking about Maxwell could take his mind off the fact she's not actually here at the moment.

"Well, she- she got a hotel room at first, and it was alright, but it was getting pricey and with- work, and stuff, she didn't really have the time to look for something else, y'know? So I said- since we hit it off pretty well, I said, "come crash on my couch," and she did."

"And when was that?"

Jacobi grunts noncommittally, shrugs.

"Dunno. Three, four months ago?"

It's actually been close to six months. Kepler knows, because that's when Maxwell's attitude went from carefully guarded to personable and friendly. Six months, Kepler realizes. Half a year spent together day in and day out, sharing daily meals and the occasional life-threatening situation. That's more than enough to cement a strong emotional bond - maybe some codependency.

_I was feeling lonely._

They step out of the car a few blocks away from Jacobi’s building and walk the rest of the way. Jacobi is trying his best to appear sober, but he trips every few steps, occasionally catching Kepler’s sleeve to recover a semblance of stability. Kepler permits it - barely, and for no more than a few seconds at a time.

They finally get to Jacobi’s floor, and Kepler looks at him fumbling with his keys as he stumbles in direction of his door.

“That _thing_ you’ve got going on with Maxwell,” he says, and Jacobi makes a noise to signal he’s listening. “You’d better put a stop to it.”

Jacobi freezes, slowly turn toward him. His brows are knitted in confusion.

“...What?”

Kepler sniffs disdainfully.

“Look at the state you put yourself in just because she’s away for a couple of days. Is it really worth it?

Jacobi scoffs disbelievingly and distractedly shoves his keys back in his pockets to better spread his hands in a very distinctive _what-the-hell_ gesture.

“Is it _worth it_ ? Are you asking me if- no, wait, do you have any idea how it’s been for me since I’ve been kicked out of the Air Force? No friends, because I blew some of _their_ friends up. No family, but let’s be honest, I’d taken care of that particular bridge a while ago. Even after you recruited me, all I had was _you_ . Maxwell’s like- she’s my best friend. My _sister._ ”

Kepler blinks, taken aback by Jacobi’s outburst. He’s used to Jacobi acting like everything is half a joke, everything gliding over him like water on a duck’s back (and, ha, this might not be the best comparison.) Him directly yelling at his superior is proof enough of how affected he is by Maxwell’s absence, and Kepler - despite himself - softens.

"Daniel," he tries, and Jacobi looks like he might either punch him or start to cry.

“Don’t,” Jacobi warns, voice fraying at the edges. He runs a hand through his hair, gaze wet and elusive, and his voice is small when he repeats: “ Don’t. Don’t pretend like you- you _care_ , or whatever. We’re tools. I get it. That’s fine.”

Kepler doesn’t say anything, and Jacobi snorts, bitter.

“Yeah. Nothing to answer to that, uh?”

Kepler signs, then takes a step forward. Automatically, Jacobi takes one back, and he hits the door with a dull thud and a vaguely shaken expression.

“You being useful to me doesn’t negate my- doesn’t mean I don’t care about your well-being,” Kepler says slowly, as if he’s speaking to an untamed beast. “I care. And that’s why I’m… worried.”

“Worried?” Jacobi says faitly. Kepler shrugs.

“I’m not particularly eager to see you hurt because you got attached to someone. Do me a service, and learn to manage your relationships.” And, before he can think better of it: “Let me help.”

Jacobi stares at him like he’s never seen him before, then starts moving - half a fall forward, half a purposeful motion - until he’s chest to chest with Kepler.

This time, Kepler sees it coming from a mile away, and still does nothing to prevent it. Jacobi presses up against him, eyes half-lidded, surprisingly graceful given his state. One of his hands loops around Kepler's neck, the other grabs a fistful of his shirt, and he drags him down to his level.

The kiss that follows is messy, hungry, edging on desperation as if Jacobi never expects to have the chance to do that ever again. Kepler welcomes it this time, his hands smoothing down Jacobi's sides and settling on his hips like they always belonged there. The small part of his mind that still remember what morals are warns him that this is technically taking advantage of a vulnerable person, but he can't bring himself to care.

Jacobi made the first move. He wants this. The drunkenness has just facilitated his decision. This is fine.

All the same, Kepler has to put an end to it. He pulls away, lets go, steps back. For a moment, Jacobi looks frozen cold, shivering at the loss of contact as his arms hang loose by his sides - but when he looks back up at Kepler, his gaze is unexpectedly steady.

"I'm not sorry about that," he says clearly, putting an extra effort in not slurring any of the syllables.

Kepler grins.

"Then neither am I."

He goes to leave, but says over his shoulder:

"Get some sleep, Jacobi. And if you're even one minute late tomorrow morning, I'll make sure no one in this city will ever sell you a drop of alcohol again."

He hears Jacobi snorts behind him.

“Sure thing, _Warren._ ”

Kepler smiles and shakes his head. He’ll let it slide this time.

 

* * *

 

It's not often that they can just relax, take a break and watch the sun rise.

Well. They're not technically taking a break. They're waiting for extraction, and there's also a sunrise happening.

Maxwell has fallen asleep against his shoulder after valiantly fending off exhaustion for twenty minutes. She's currently snoring lightly, glasses askew and her hair in disarray. Jacobi has yet to comment on it, but he looks amused whenever he glances in their direction - though if it's because of the reaction Maxwell will have when she wakes up and realizes she took a nap on her boss, or if it's because of said boss having to suffer the indignity of being used as a pillow, Kepler doesn't know.

The three of them are a bit bloody, a bit singed in places, but they're all alive and in one piece, which is more than they could have hoped for when the mission started going south.

Speaking of-

“Jacobi.” Kepler clears his throat, and says - with just the right amount of approval to get that shine of devotion in Jacobi’s eyes, nothing excessive - “Good job, back there.”

Jacobi snorts. “ _Good job_ is the kind of thing you can say when I leave the ballistic lab in one piece. That was way more than just _good job_.”

“Well,” Kepler says dryly, “Someone has a high opinion of themselves.”

Jacobi shrugs. “Someone has to.”

Kepler stops himself from saying something caustic that would make it worse, and breathes deeply instead, looking into the pink-and-orange sky for inspiration.

“You’re-” he starts, then pauses, before saying: “You’re competent, you know.”

“Wow. Competent, uh?”

“Quiet. I’m not done.” He digs deep inside himself to find an acceptable way to formulate thoughts that have lingered in his mind for a while, and carefully handpicks his words when he says: “Don’t belittle yourself in the hope someone else is going to make you feel important. You know your own value- that you’re working well. Here, in my unit. I would never have picked you up if I didn’t think you were worth something.”

Jacobi doesn’t say anything for a few long minutes, and Kepler is ready to put that particular conversation in the “dealt with” category before Jacobi speaks up in a low voice.

“Thank you.”

Kepler hums.

“It’s alright. You _did_ do a very good job. Looks like you haven’t outlived your usefulness yet.”

Jacobi laughs quietly and bumps his shoulder against Kepler’s.

The silence lingers, comfortable in a way it never is between them. There are no orders to give or to follow - just a moment of peace to enjoy while the world stops requiring fixing for a bit.

The sun is casting warm lights and blue shadows on Jacobi's face, and Kepler doesn't realize he's been staring until Jacobi glances his way and holds his gaze.

It feels- magnetic, almost. Like two celestial bodies, capturing each other in their orbit, inexorably running toward mutual destruction but not more able to escape the other's attraction than they were to avoid it altogether.

It’s like a dance, really. Kepler bends his head toward Jacobi, and Jacobi tilts his head up - hesitant, cautious. Kepler looks down at his mouth, looks up again, expectantly. Waiting. And finally - _finally,_ Jacobi bridges the gap and kisses him.

It's by far the most meaningful kiss they shared. It has none of the tentativeness of the first one, none of the urgency of the second. It's slow, unhurried, a bit lazy and overwhelmingly intimate in the way they share a breath as their lips part for a second, then meet again.

It feels like the moment has simultaneously stretched into an eternity and only lasted a heartbeat when Jacobi pulls away. He stares at Kepler for a second - expression tinged with surprise, as if wondering if this even happened at all - then looks away, smiling a private, satisfied smile.

They should probably- talk about it, Warren thinks. Whatever it is. That razor's edge they've been dancing on is sharp, and the sensible thing would be to decide what to do with it before someone got hurt.

They should talk.

They don't.

 

* * *

 

They never talk.

 

Sometimes they kiss.


End file.
